


it's the coldest time of winter

by eehms



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Exes, F/M, M/M, Potentially Unhealthy Relationship Dynamics, Pre-Canon, harold they're criminals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-17 17:08:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29228955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eehms/pseuds/eehms
Summary: Eames used to think that he and Arthur were meant to be. Sometime around the third breakup, he'd started to lose faith in that concept. When he's called in to work a quick job before Christmas with the man, he's certain that he won't backslide again.And then, well.
Relationships: Arthur/Eames (Inception), Eames/OFC
Comments: 10
Kudos: 51





	it's the coldest time of winter

**Author's Note:**

> me? writing arthur/eames in 2021? it's more likely than you think! was supposed to be posted in time for christmas, but deadlines and i are not friends. hopefully you still enjoy even though it's february! feel as if there is a tragic lack of arthur/eames exes fics (or, if i'm just missing them, PLEASE send links) so i set out to write one!!

There had been a point where Eames would have considered Arthur to be the most important person in his life. 

Arthur, with his dark, wary eyes, and his severely slicked back hair. Imagine that. Imagine looking at Arthur, and thinking to yourself, “that is the man that I love, the man that I trust, the man that I’d curl up in bed with for, at very least, the foreseeable future”. Arthur, with his no-nonsense personality, and the rod shoved so far up his arse that it had permanently affected his posture, so different from Eames in every way.

But Eames had been young. Arthur had been, too, but Eames doesn’t think Arthur had ever been truly young, in anything but body. Arthur had sprouted from the earth fully grown with a chip on his shoulder and a tendency towards suspicion. And Eames is older than Arthur, but especially back then, when they’d first met, he’d been ages behind in terms of emotional and mental development, apparently. Eames had allowed himself to be soft, to fall in love, while Arthur had never been anything but shut off and empty. Eames had loved Arthur, quite desperately, quite ardently, and Arthur?

Arthur had left.

*

_December 19, 20xx_

Eames is in Portugal on a job. He normally doesn’t take jobs this close to the holiday season, because he knows his mum will kill him if he doesn’t get back home in time for Christmas pudding, but needs must. His bank account is running a bit low, and Malorie Cobb had called him herself, which means that they must have been quite desperate for a forger. He hadn’t had a job with the Cobbs since everything with Arthur had imploded for the fourth time, and Eames is about to say no when she tells him how much he’ll be getting paid. Something within his ribcage aches at the thought of seeing Arthur again, but he can push through his hurt feelings for that much money.

And so he’s in Lisbon, his hands shoved casually into his pockets as he arrives at the address given to him by Malorie. He’s very much not looking forward to this initial meeting, but he’s been through this before. He and Arthur had gotten together and broken up four times now, which meant that he’d done this particular first meeting thrice before. He should be an old pro, by now. And this time, he holds a secret in his possession, a card that he has never played before. This time, walking into the building to meet with Arthur and the Cobbs, Eames is fully secure in the fact that he no longer wants Arthur. Each time before, there’d been a little part of him that had whispered in his ear, _maybe it’ll work this time, maybe it’ll go better, maybe you should talk to him, maybe you should kiss him_. 

This time, Eames only wants the money. He’ll be a professional, they’ll wrap this job up quickly, and he’ll be on the long, circuitous route back to England before Christmas Day. 

* 

The building they’re working out of is a three-story, golden yellow row house in a part of Lisbon that tourists don’t often travel to. Eames is concerned about neighbours, when he surveys the area for potential dangers, but he’s sure that Arthur had thoroughly vetted every single person on this block, down to the last man, woman, child, and pet. Malorie greets him at the door when he knocks, tells him that he’s more than welcome to stay in one of the bedrooms upstairs, there’s more than enough for all of them. Eames casts her an incredulous look, with enough humour in his eyes to let her know that it’s all in good fun. There’s not a chance he’s going to sleep in the same building as Arthur is. He doesn’t say it out loud, but from the wry smile on her face, he’s sure that she understands. 

The house is tidy, and minimally furnished, everything clinical and white. Eames has been to many houses in Lisbon, in Portugal, in Spain, and the decorating generally follows the same sort of pattern with warmth and colour, but this house looks like a hospital. It’ll make wiping everything down at the end of the job easier, at least, but Eames is a big believer in the effect that the aesthetic appeal of a person’s work and living area has on a person. No matter. He’ll be out of here in a few days. He’ll survive.

Mal guides him to the main work area, a large dining room on the first floor. It overlooks a small backyard that is filled with nothing but dead and dying shrubbery. Dom is there, sat in a little desk, pouring over a pile of what looks to be blueprints. Arthur is stood at his side, arms crossed, eyes hard as he stares down at what Dom is pointing at. On Dom’s other side is a woman Eames has never met before, red haired and freckled, maybe a few years older than Eames is himself. 

All three look up as Eames and Mal enter the room. Dom straightens up out of his hunch, smiling wide, as if it will make up for the way that Arthur turns to stone at his side. The woman grins, bright and friendly, walking forward along with Dom to greet him.

It’s the warmest greeting that Eames has ever received from Dom, who immediately places a hand on his shoulder and walks him around the room after introducing him to the redhead, a chemist named Aoife. Dom shows him to the desk that has been assigned as his workspace, hand still on his shoulder and subtly directing him to look away from Arthur. Dom practically deposits him in his chair, flanked by Mal, who has come to join him in crowding him at his desk. Despite the plastered cheer on both Cobbs’ faces, the energy of the room is strange, tense, and Eames knows that he has to just rip off the bandage, so they’ll be able to get the work done.

“Dom,” Eames interrupts the man from talking about how he hopes Eames’ flight was alright, shifting his shoulder and shrugging Dom’s hand off of him. “You know that I appreciate the red carpet, but there’s really no need.” He leans over, peering around Dom’s body, still acting as a block between the two former lovers. He clears his throat, adopting his most polite tone. “Arthur. It’s good to see you again.”

Arthur’s sat himself down at what must be his own desk, far on the opposite side of the room. His posture is stiff, body language tight, coiled. Eames has always thought that Arthur has a look about him that is rather feline, and none more so than at that very moment. “Eames.” He answers, begrudging. There’s the briefest of pauses before he continues in a voice not nearly as neutrally polite as Eames’, “good to see you too.”

Eames smiles, one of his most bland, his most inoffensive, and looks quickly back to Dom. “See? Nothing to worry about.”

Both Dom and Mal look unconvinced, but seem content to let it go. Mal remains with Eames, to catch him up to speed on the mark, while Dom and Aoife return to the blueprints on Dom’s desk. Eames listens to Mal as she talks about what they’ve gathered so far, but can’t stop himself from peeking out of the corner of his eyes over to where Arthur works at his desk, back straight, expression blank. 

*

_December 20, 20xx_

Eames had gotten carried away in his own research of the mark, reading over the documents until after midnight. Everyone else had gone to bed, even Arthur, who had gathered up his laptop and his notebook, and had walked upstairs without saying a word. Eames had only half-noticed, engrossed as he was, but had simultaneously let himself relax as the man disappeared from sight. 

Now it was 2 in the morning, and Eames was reconsidering his decision to not sleep at the house. He had his bag in his rental car, parked outside, and he dreaded the idea of going to find a hotel when there’s apparently a perfectly serviceable bedroom upstairs waiting for him. He neatly arranges the notes on his desk, because contrary to what people might think of him, he does prefer an orderly workspace, and moves to the kitchen to pilfer through their snacks. Dom always makes sure that there’s plenty to eat when they’re working. Mal has a sweet tooth. 

He’s in the process of rifling through the cupboards when he hears someone descending the stairs and heading in his direction. He momentarily tenses up but is relieved to see that it’s Aoife.

“Late night snack?” Eames asks, returning to his cupboards. Most of the snacks are American, things that Eames never sees unless he’s in the country. He tosses through those ones until he triumphantly unearths a bag of twiglets. 

He’s about to reach for the silver kettle sitting on the countertop when he sees Aoife beat him to the punch. “Need a cuppa,” she grins, her soft Irish lilt pleasant to listen to as she fills the kettle with water. She grabs two mugs, making the safe assumption that Eames will join her, and they settle at the island as they wait for the water to boil. Eames opens up his bag of twiglets, offering some to the woman, who shoots him a teasingly disgusted look. 

“So,” Eames says, relaxing against the counter, resting his chin on his hand as he turns to face her head on. He smiles, something charming, but tired. “What brings you to work with Cobbs?”

Aoife snorts. “Are you joking? Begged them to take me on. With their reputation, I’d be a bleeding eejit to not try and get in with them.”

Eames nods, allowing for that. The Cobbs had a pristine reputation in dreamshare. They’d been one of the first to take extracting out of the theoretical realm of academia, which they had both come from. Their jobs were known to run the smoothest, and they tended to get the biggest payouts. If he’d been just starting out, he’d be hoping to get to know the Cobbs, too. “Of course. Got to get in with the dream team.”

Aoife gives him a considering look. “Yeah. Dom and Malorie have been right amazing. So has Arthur, but he can be a bit of a prick, can’t he?”

Eames laughs, shaking his head slightly. He’s not surprised that Aoife would pick up on the awkward situation they’d found themselves in. Hell, anyone would have been able to guess after that greeting. And Eames isn’t really interested in hiding something that had become fairly well-known in their circles. All Aoife had to do was ask anyone who had ever worked with Arthur or Eames, and they’d know about their turbulent history.

“He can be,” Eames answers, still chuckling a bit. “But he’s bloody good at the job. You’d do well to stay on his good side.”

“You don’t seem to have, and you’re doing just fine.”

The kettle begins to boil, and Eames stands up before it can start making noise and waking up the rest of the house. He brews their tea for them, allowing the calm of the routine to wash over him before he answers. There’s just something about making tea that’s always put him at ease. “I am doing just fine, but I assure you, that’s despite being on Arthur’s bad side. I’d advise anyone else to just avoid it altogether.” He smiles down at the mugs, “though you will be missing some spectacular views.”

Aoife shrugs, reaching a hand out for Eames to pass her the mug. “If you say so. Were you together long?”

“You’re a nosy one, aren’t you?” Eames settles back in at the counter, depositing both mugs in front of them. “What has Arthur said?”

“Arthur hasn’t said a word,” Aoife shakes her head, “but I’ve heard about you two, while on a different job.” She runs a finger along the rim of the cup, expression turning thoughtful, before looking up at Eames. “I suppose you don’t have to answer anything. I just wanted to know if things would be okay. On the job, I mean. It’s shite to work with people who hate each other.” 

Eames considers that. Do they hate each other? “You haven’t a need for worry,” he assures her, doing his best to seem confident, despite not being very much so in reality. He’s good at faking it, though. “I don’t hate Arthur, and even if I did, I’m not going to do anything to affect the job. I’d like to be headed home in a few days.”

Aoife brightens. “Are you going home for the holidays?”

Eames launches into a conversation about his upcoming plans, most of them lies, but nice sounding ones, at least. He’s glad for the distraction, for the change in topic, and they talk until their tea goes cold and it really is far too late for Eames to consider driving to find a hotel. For a brief moment, he thinks about trying to see if Aoife is up for it, to see if he can sneak his way into her bed, but he ultimately dismisses it. He’s not sure where he and Arthur stand right now, but he knows that sleeping with someone else in the room next to the man would at the very least be considered impolite. So he dismisses that thought, gets Aoife to help him collect his bag from the car, and then bring him to one of the empty rooms upstairs. 

Laying there in bed, alone, Eames thinks about how much he’d rather be at home with his family. He doesn’t normally get homesick, is more than happy to spend the majority of his time far, _far_ away from where his mum can get her prying little fingers into his personal life, but. It’s the holidays. His sister and her husband would be making the pilgrimage up to the big country house, where his mum still keeps on a handful of live-in staff, despite the fact that she claims to be just like any other normal Englishwoman. The exterior of the house would be tastefully decorated by this point, nothing too garish or ugly, nothing that would make someone driving by in their car stop and stare, but just enough to create a feeling of whimsy as you walked through the gardens. Inside, the house would be warm, the fire roaring, and there’d be a glass of sherry that accompanied every slow, quiet evening. 

Eames falls asleep, thinking about drinking hot cocoa and someone’s face tucked into the crook of his neck.

*

Arthur doesn’t acknowledge him again until the next evening. 

To be fair, Eames had spent most of the day out, tailing the mark’s wife, a bashful, 4”9 little brunette, who seemed to spend a lot of time haunting various high-end boutiques. Eames had seen their bank statements and knew that she couldn’t really afford most of what was inside, but still, she went. She liked to try things on, probably liked to envision herself living a life much more opulent than the one she lived now.

Eames follows her until around 6:30, when she finally returns back to their house for the night. The roads had been absolute madness, this close to Christmas, and Eames is rather relieved to get back to the row house. 

Arthur is the only one in their workspace when Eames sweeps in, the sound of cooking and chatting ringing out from the kitchen. Arthur doesn’t bother to greet him, and so Eames doesn’t either. He tosses his stakeout hat onto the top of his desk, stretching out a muscle in his back as he does so. He’s always a bit sore after sitting in the car all day, could really go for a long soak in a tub right about then.

Eames is about to go and join Aoife and the Cobbs in the kitchen when he hears Arthur clear his throat. The man doesn’t look up from his laptop as he says, “are you staying the night again?”

Eames pauses, turning to face the man. Arthur might be afraid to bloody look at him, but Eames wasn’t. “I was planning on it,” he starts, wary, but he’s trying to be courteous and not rock the boat, so he continues, “but I can get a hotel.”

“No,” Arthur starts, still not looking at him, and he’s stiff and awkward and there’s something in his face that looks endlessly fragile. “No, you don’t have to. I was just wondering.”

“Okay,” Eames answers, drawing it out a bit. He’s not used to Arthur being this hesitant, not used to him being this withdrawn. Sure, they’d broken up before and it was always rather strange to work together afterward, but this time, Arthur’s completely clammed up. It fills Eames with misplaced sympathy, makes him want to do what he always does, and reach out, caress, reassure the man in front of him until his muscles unclench and he relaxes. Normally, Eames would have probably already shown up at Arthur’s bedroom door, resolve already crumbled into pieces, asking Arthur to let him in again. But no, not this time. Eames braces himself, and he walks out of the room to join the others in the kitchen. 

*

_December 21, 20xx_

It’s late in the afternoon the next day, and they’re in a dream. Eames had spent his morning following the wife again and wanted to go down under for a test run on his forge. Dom had quickly agreed, wanting to iron out parts of the office building that the extraction would take place in, and then they’d just decided it’d be best for them all to go under as well. Mal stays up top, because Aoife was testing out a new component in her formula and wanted first-hand experience in how it affected them. It was supposed to make the mark reveal more, not verbally, but by letting it slip out subconsciously into the background of the dream in a more seamless way. 

Eames is a bit displeased that they’d all followed him under. He likes working on his forges in private, so that he can channel all of his focus into getting the details right. It was easy for him to forge; at this point in his career, molding himself into another person was old hat, but all of the tiny details, the quirks, the mannerisms were something that he still had to exert a lot of energy into perfecting. So when they slide down into Cobb’s ugly office building, Eames wastes no time in slipping away from the group to find himself a quiet room where he wouldn’t be disturbed.

He tends to lose track of time in dreams, but he’s probably been working on his forge for about a half an hour when he realizes that the room he’s sealed himself away into has shifted. Not drastically so, and only really noticeable because he’s an eye for detail. The walls have changed from a pale, inoffensive blue, to a pale, inoffensive green. The floor beneath his feet, previously the ugly, thin grey carpeting of most cheap office buildings, has melted away, revealing wood that is still sort of grey in colour. Through the window that looks out onto the Lisbon skyline, snow has begun to gently float down. And there’s a little sprig of mistletoe hanging above the door frame.

 _This must be from Aoife’s new formula_ ; Eames thinks to himself. He’s had the odd issue with bringing a detail or two into a dream with him, mostly in the form of a projection that resembles an old forge, but he’s never subconsciously changed the weather before. He knows it’s from him, what with how his mind had been lingering on Christmas so much lately. He shakes his head, but allows himself a moment to appreciate the sight of Lisbon covered in a layer of snow before he heads towards the door to go and rejoin the others. 

He opens the door to find Arthur on the other side of it. He’s pulled up a chair against the wall opposite the door, leaning forward to rest his elbow on his knee as he reads through a book. That’s a quirk that Eames has always found endlessly fascinating about the man, the fact that he can actually read a book while in dreams. Whenever Eames opens one, the pages are all either completely blank, or covered in random doodles and scribbles that he recognizes as his own handiwork. But no, Arthur can _read_ ; pages lined with words and stories that he never lets Eames look at, not even when they’d been on better terms. 

“Oh,” Eames starts, slightly, because he hadn’t expected to find Arthur sitting there. He’s still not even fully out of the forge, form shifting from the tiny woman back into his regular self as he looks at Arthur. He briefly wonders if he’s perhaps a projection that Eames has brought in, but eliminates that possibility. If he’d been one of Eames’ projections, he’d be naked. “Were you waiting for me?”

Arthur looks up, then, and Eames has to reconsider if he’s a projection after all, because he bloody _smiles_ at him. “Someone had to keep the dream from collapsing in on you.”

“Is everyone else gone? You didn’t have to stay.” Eames shifts his stance, unsure why Arthur’s being so nice to him, and also very aware that he’s standing beneath mistletoe. When he looks to his left, there’s a wreath hanging on the wall that hadn’t been there a moment before. 

“I know,” Arthur just shrugs, and he snaps the book closed as he stands. He looks over Eames’ shoulder, into the room that he’d just exited. His brows furrow, slightly. It’s not adorable. “Is it snowing outside?”

Eames manages a weak laugh as Arthur moves past him, going to stare out the window. The room has changed once again while he hadn’t been looking, the walls darkening until they’re a rich, forest green, speckled with age. There’s a fireplace against the far wall, a fire already burning, illuminating an ancient rug thrown across the dark, wooden floorboards. If he closes his eyes again, he’s sure that the walls will populate themselves with heavy framed portraits, his relatives staring down at him from what is looking more and more like his family estate. 

Eames hesitates, but then he moves to join Arthur at the window. Lisbon really is quite lovely in the snow.

Arthur looks up as Eames leans beside him, elbows on the windowsill. He raises an eyebrow. “This looks like your mom’s house.”

Eames is the one who doesn’t look at Arthur this time. “It does, doesn’t it? Think Aoife’s formula is working its magic.”

“Must be.” Arthur says from beside him, voice low. “Are you going back there? For Christmas?”

Eames considers lying to him, but he’ll be able to tell, and why bother lying, anyways? “I am.” He hesitates then, chewing on the inside of his lip as he considers what to say. People always think that being in dreams would make conversations like this easier, less heavy, but they don’t. The room they’re standing in isn’t real, but Arthur is, and Eames is too, and it always carries forward consequences. “Mum’s going to be very unhappy with me. Showing up late, and alone.”

Arthur sighs. “Eames…”

“No, it’s alright.” He straightens up, squaring his jaw as he works up the nerve to look at Arthur. “I’m alright, I mean. I’ll give her your best, and I’ll tell her the truth. Just talking to her should make her bloody happy.”

“The truth?” Arthur blinks at him, looking skeptical.

Eames smiles, and it feels liable to crack, crumble right off of his face. “That it just doesn’t work. It never works. I’m not angry with you about it, either, not anymore. I think I just needed a bit of time to realize that we’re not good for each other. That I was being a bit too romantic about it all.”

Arthur makes a face, that one he makes when he doesn’t know the right words to say, doesn’t know how to react. It had used to drive Eames mad, when they first started. Eames had been there, and he’d been head over heels, and he’d wanted to shout it from the rooftops and kiss it into Arthur’s skin at every waking moment. But Arthur, coiled, guarded Arthur, hadn’t known how to accept his sentiment, hadn’t known how to reciprocate, even though Eames was quite sure he did feel the same. It had frustrated him, because how bloody hard could it be for Arthur to just say he loved him back? But the months they’d spent apart since their last breakup, it had finally occurred to Eames that perhaps he was being a bit selfish, to expect Arthur to just magically know what he wanted him to say, and be able to say it. Arthur wasn’t the same as him, and the things that were easy for Eames might seem insurmountable to Arthur. It wasn’t all his fault. They’d both contributed. 

“I…” Arthur hesitates, face still twisted, unsure. “I don’t know what to say.”

“You needn’t say anything, darling.” The nickname slips off his tongue before he can stop it, but he’s not about to apologize. “I promise, I’m alright. How about we just go back to how it was before all of this, before it got so wretchedly complicated, eh?”

Arthur smooths out his expression, slowly shifting back to his neutral facsimile, just as easily as Eames had shifted out of the mark’s wife. The corner of his lip twitches upwards. “I don’t know if I even remember what it was like.”

“It was shit,” Eames says, easily, gathering up all of his courage to clap a friendly hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “You complained about how lazy I am. I complained about how uptight you are. Constant psychological warfare. I’m sure the Cobbs will have missed the hostile work environment.”

Arthur rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t shrug out from under Eames’ hand. Eames is the one who has to remove it himself, after it lingers for just a beat too long. “I don’t think anyone missed that.”

“Well, even so.” Eames smiles, his mask. He’s sure that Arthur sees right through it, but the point is in the fact that he’s wearing it at all. “Now. Why don’t we go throw ourselves off the top of this building? It’s tall enough, no?” Without waiting for Arthur to respond, Eames strides away, his legs feeling like jelly, as he ignores the mistletoe and exits his mother’s sitting room.

*

_December 22, 20xx_

The job is progressing quickly, quicker than any other Eames has worked on. It’s really not all that complicated of a job, the dream equivalent of a smash and grab. Eames would be there, acting as the wife to distract the mark, while Arthur and Dom rifled around in the valuables. They’d find him the next morning in his office at work; had arranged it so that the coffee his assistant brought him that morning would have a sedative in it. There were no cameras in his office, and disabling the cameras in the hall outside would be beyond simple for Arthur. It was a tight plan, in and out within 20 minutes.

Arthur hated the plan. He’d been in a poor mood since his and Eames’ talk the day previous, seeming to take Eames’ suggestion of returning to a hostile work environment rather literally. He glares at them all morning, sniping and snarking at any suggestions that any of them make. Eames, curiously, is the only exception to the rule, as Arthur seemingly prefers to ignore him altogether, acting as if he hadn’t said a word. 

Everyone is sour and grumbling by lunch hour. Cobb and Mal are the first to retreat from the workroom, disappearing into the kitchen without further word after Arthur openly rolls his eyes at something Cobb has said. 

He is just about to make his own tactical retreat when Aoife approaches him at his desk. The woman has been mostly safe from Arthur’s ire, as she’d been quite absorbed in her chemicals all morning. Eames had noticed her shooting Arthur incredulous looks at some of his more vocal outbursts.

“Eames.” Aoife nods at him, wiping some imaginary dust off of her violet blouse. The woman likes wearing a lot of colour, which is something he’d noted for if he had need to forge her one day. No drab browns or greys. There’s a stain on one of her hands, as if a pen had exploded rather spectacularly and she’d only made cursory efforts to wash it up. “Want to go for a bite?” 

Eames raises his eyebrows at her, surprised, but pleased. He’s standing up and grabbing his light jacket, hanging over the back of his chair before he even replies. “Sounds wonderful. There’s this fantastic fish and chips place not far down the road, have you been?”

Aoife has not been, and they have a lovely little lunch break together. Aoife tells him about the son she’s left back in Cork, living with her parents until she gets back from this trip. She’s a remarkably easy person to talk with, not that Eames generally has trouble making conversation, but there’s something about her easy humour that has Eames gasping for breath between bouts of laughter. He thinks that she might be a bit too trusting, especially for someone in their line of work. Eames could be anyone, and now he knows of the existence and approximate location of three of her loved ones. He wouldn’t do anything, of course, but the point remains. 

He thinks quite seriously again about sleeping with her. He thinks that she would probably let him, and he thinks it would probably be quite good. She’s exactly the sort of woman that he most often finds himself attracted to, mature and capable with a wicked laugh and enough common sense to know that anything they did wouldn’t be permanent. And while they’re on their walk back to the house, meandering and slow to avoid getting back to work, he looks over at her and thinks about kissing her while she’s in the middle of a story about how the first extraction she’d been involved in had gone comically bad. 

He thinks about kissing her, feet coming to a gradual stop, around the corner from where the house stands waiting for them. He looks at her lips, and she stops telling her story, and she looks at his too.

“Eames?” She asks, eyes a bit wide, dark. One of her hands reaches up to twist a red curl around a finger, uncertain. 

And he’s never really been one to stop himself from achieving his own pleasure, so he leans in, and he kisses her. Her lips are soft, and maybe a little bit salty from the chips, but so are his. It’s a quick, fleeting kiss, one that nonetheless makes his heart thrum, the satisfaction of being desired coursing through his body. 

They both pull away slow. “Mam would kill me,” she breathes, and her mouth twists up in a smile. “Kissing an Englishman. What am I thinking?”

Eames chuckles, and he straightens himself up, peering around at the road around them. The few people in the area pay them no attention, going on with their busy lives. “You were thinking that it’d be quite nice.”

“Oh, was I?”

“Yes,” Eames grins, tilting his head back to look at her. “What’s not to like? Me, a dashing, handsome man, country of origin notwithstanding, and you, a gorgeous little scientist.”

“Oh, handsome, are you?”

“I thought a scientist would know not to ask silly questions.”

Aoife laughs, loud and ringing over the street. “There’s a lot of things I should know not to do by now. Like kissing someone else’s man right ‘round the corner from them.”

Eames feels his smile promptly melt off of his face. “Aoife,” he starts, slowly, “we’re not… it’s—”

“Complicated?” Aoife interrupts, her own smile still firmly in place. It’s shifted though, looks more wry. “Look, I get it. It’s always complicated, right?”

“We’re not together,” Eames insisted, because that part feels important to impart, “I wouldn’t kiss you if we were together.”

“Okay.” Aoife answers, understanding, kind. “But it’s still new, right? It still hurts?”

Eames is quiet. It’s not exactly new, hadn’t been for months. Years, if he’s being honest, years since he’s begun to come to terms with the fact that they don’t work together. That they way they love doesn’t work together. But it does still hurt. Hurts like he’s 23 again and Arthur’s left him in an empty bed for the very first time. He’s not sure it ever won’t hurt, not sure he’ll ever really get over it. He hasn’t devoted much time to thinking about it, but he’ll probably be one of those men, old and grey, maybe married to someone else, or maybe not. Either way, he knows he’ll still think of Arthur sometimes, wonder how he’s doing, wonder if he ever found someone who he thought was worth staying around for. That is assuming he even lives long enough to become grey and melancholy. 

Instead, Eames lets himself smile. “Am I that obvious?”

Aoife looks at him. Her hand is still in her hair, still twisting and tugging red curls that Eames wishes he could touch. Wishes that he had more interest in touching. “No,” she says, slow. “But he is. C’mon. Let’s get back before they send out the search party.”

*

They get back. Arthur stares hard at them on their return, accusatory. The kiss had been quick, barely anything, and would have left no signs, but there’s something about the set of Arthur’s face, the defensive curl of his spine that makes Eames think that the man can see it anyways.

That evening, Arthur walks them all through a checklist to make sure that they know what they’re doing. They do, but Arthur is nothing if not methodical, and the rest of them know by now that it’s easier to just do what he asks of you. Arthur is a consummate professional and doesn’t let his obvious suspicion of Eames and Aoife affect their work, not when they’re this close to the action. Still, Aoife looks guilty, if you look hard enough. Eames won’t let himself feel it. What business is it of Arthur? The man who’d left him four times?

The checklist goes smoothly, and Cobb and Arthur go down into a dream one last time to run through the architecture. Eames decides to call it an early night. They’ll be up by 5 the next morning, and though he can function off just a few hours’ sleep, he’d much rather prefer not to. 

He falls asleep, flashes of red curls and suspicious eyes following him until he drops off into dreamless sleep.

*

_December 23, 20xx_

The first part of the job goes well. They’re all up, dressed, and ready to go by 5:30, even Dom, who tends to move at a tortoise-like pace at any point prior to noon. They’re in the office building shortly after, half of them ducking in through a back entrance, the other half strolling right in. It’s an office building, not Fort Knox. Arthur does what he does, and takes care of the cameras, and their mark is in his office, drugged and asleep by 6:45. An early riser, he is. They get hooked up, Aoife the only one not going under, prepared to stand vigil over their bodies for the next few minutes. It goes well.

They know almost immediately that something has gone wrong. Waking up while in a dream that you know you’re having generally feels effortless, natural— the quick start into prepared awareness. This isn’t that. This is more like coming into a gradual consciousness that you need to drag out of yourself. Everything about it feels difficult; the air, muggy, thick; heaving gasping breaths damaging the delicate filaments of your lungs. The gravity is wrong, pressing them down with greater force than usual, causing Eames’ knees to wobble and shake under his own weight. That, combined with the strength of the air resistance makes every moment a marathon unto itself. 

And they’re not in Cobb’s office building, so carefully prepared, lovingly decorated. Or, if they are, it’s some unseen offshoot, some secret room that Eames certainly hadn’t encountered before. He’s fairly sure that Arthur wouldn’t have allowed Cobb to construct a build that had walls that bled with colour, streaming down in endless gallons, like paint that pools thickly at their feet. 

“What—” Eames finally manages to choke out, blinking rapidly at the other three in the room. They’re all there, save the mark, who is nowhere to be seen. Arthur, Dom, and Mal all seem to be experiencing the same thing as Eames, if their bewildered, suffering expressions are anything to go off of. 

“Arthur,” Cobb croaks, voice sounding like a desperate, sucking wound. “What’s going on?”

At Eames’ right, Arthur’s knees buckle, and he lands painfully on the floor, the paint splashing dramatically. He’s followed immediately by Mal, who falls as gracefully as one can manage when being crushed down by the weight of the heavy air. Curiously, they both seem to fall in slow motion. “I—” Arthur spits out, looking furious with himself for doing something as unforgivable as falling, “it must be the formula. It’s new, it’s untested.”

“We tested it,” Eames points out, just as his own knees go out. He’s close enough to the wall that he’s able to reach a flailing arm out to try and catch himself on it, but it proves to be no support. His hand sinks through it, paint slithering up to his elbow. “This didn’t happen in any of the runs. Has to be the mark.”

Arthur, whose head had whipped around to face him the second he started talking, sneers at him. “There was nothing in the mark’s background to indicate _this._ It has to be the mix. I know you don’t want us to think too badly about your girlfriend—”

“Alright,” Cobb holds out a shaky hand as Eames opens his mouth to retaliate, the only one of them who has managed to stay on their feet. His face is pink and sweaty with the effort it takes. “Let’s not start pointing fingers before we find a way to fix this.”

“I don’t see how,” Arthur mumbles darkly under his breath, but he begins casting his eyes about, analytical brain already looking for a way to solve this. 

The room they’re in is small, enclosed, with no doors or windows. The paint that streams down the walls has no starting point that Eames can spot, just oozes endlessly from some point in the middle of the ceiling. It pools all the way up to about 5 inches, but rises no further, so at least they don’t have to worry about drowning in the stuff. 

Eames pulls his hand out of the paint on the wall, withdrawing with a wet squelch. The paint drips from him as he examines it, swirling prettily with colours that Eames could only dream of mixing himself. The blues are somehow more vibrant, the reds gleam with more authority. “I’ve never seen anything like this before,” he admits, still peering curiously at his hand. The paint drips off of him almost completely, just leaving a faint residue, like a glimmering oil. 

“Nor I,” Mal breathes, who is staring down at the paint herself, cupped in her palms like she’s about to drink from it. “It’s almost beautiful, no?”

“No,” Arthur answers, stiffly. “It’s not.” He’s managed to pull himself very slowly to his feet, the legs of his pants completely ruined by the paint pouring from him. “I can’t change anything. I can’t build a door or change my clothes. Eames, can you forge?”

Eames blinks, letting his hand fall down to the paint on the ground. He closes his eyes, thinks himself into another person, even feels his edges start to blur, but when he opens them again, he’s still himself. “No, seems I can’t.”

“Fuck.” Arthur swears, turning away. There’s a sickened expression falling over his face. “Would a kick even work? With how slow we fall?”

Dom grimaces. “I doubt it. And that just leaves—”

“Waiting the timer out,” Eames answers, just as Arthur says, “drowning.” They frown at each other. 

“I think Eames is right,” Mal offers, still playing with the paint, letting it slip through her fingers, absentmindedly. “We don’t know where we’ve landed. I don’t think that there’s a guarantee that we’ll wake up if we die.”

Cobb turns sharply to her. “You think limbo is a possibility?”

Mal shrugs. “There’s no way to know for sure. Not unless we slip into it.”

“Limbo?” Eames asks, slightly disbelieving. His heart thuds nervously in his chest. He’s heard of limbo, because of course he has, but he’s never put much stock into it. He’d half thought it was made up, something told to naughty extractors to keep them from getting too confident. “Surely it’s not that dire.”

Arthur and the Cobbs are quiet. He supposes that that answers his question. 

After a moment of tense silence, Cobb speaks again. “Look, there’s no point dwelling on it, not yet, at least. Let’s just keep trying to find a way out.” 

Arthur’s jaw tenses, and they get to it. Laboriously, Eames drags himself to his feet, lip curling in disgust at the sensation of the paint clinging to him. He helps Mal up, hands slipping and sliding against each other, making it a lot more difficult than he’d expected. Both of them are panting by the time Mal is up, but the woman is laughing slightly, and her smile is a soothing balm in comparison to Arthur and Dom’s frigid silence. Eames sort of misses this, he realizes, which is a surprise even to himself, seeing as they’re trapped in a dream. But he and Arthur had spent a lot of time with Dom and Mal when they’d been a couple, and despite Arthur winning the Cobbs in the split, he still thought of Mal as a friend. 

Mal, biting her bottom lip to keep from laughing too much, reaches towards Eames’ face, dragging her index fingers over his cheeks. Eames could stop her, with how slow her movement is, but doesn’t, lets her draw what feels like cat whiskers on his face. Real giggles escape from her as she finishes, giving him an approving nod as she surveys her work. Eames retaliates, dipping his finger in the paint on the wall, and draws a crude outline of an eyepatch over one of Mal’s owl-like eyes. 

“Arrr,” Mal deadpans when he finishes, and the two of them dissolve into quiet laughter. There’s an edge to it, just shy of hysterical.

“Are you two finished?” Arthur’s unimpressed voice cuts in, interrupting them, all sharp edges. Eames looks over at him, and he’s glowering at the two of them. 

“I think we’re about done,” Eames nods, smiling blandly at the man. He turns back to Mal. “Do you think we’re done?”

“Yes, I think so.” Mal answers. 

“Splendid, seems we’re quite finished, darling.” Eames turns on his heels to face Arthur again, advancing towards him as quickly as the strange gravity in the room will allow him. “In fact, it seems we’re—”

Eames’ stomach swoops as he takes a step forward and the ground drops from under him. He lands painfully with an embarrassing, _oof,_ landing on his bum on the edge of the hole that has suddenly opened up, and quickly slides in and down. He’s only just able to hear the sound of Arthur’s shocked inhale before his senses are thoroughly taken over by the swirling vortex he’s found himself in. It’s pitch black, wet all over, like going down an enclosed water slide, only it’s a straight down drop. Eames can hardly breathe with his surprise, let alone scream, and he heaves in desperate gasps whenever he’s able and not being splashed in the face by the paint. 

He falls for about 30 seconds or so before he pops out on the other end, completely unharmed. He’s dropped down from the ceiling into another empty room, one not covered in melting paint, and because of that, one rather unremarkable in comparison. He’s landed awkwardly once again on his bum and heels, and he bounces a couple of times off of ground that feels like it might be a trampoline before it solidifies beneath him. He’s no longer covered in paint. It’s very anti-climactic. 

Eames stands up, curious to find that the strange gravity from the paint room no longer seems to have its hold on him— more like any other dream he’s ever been in. He peers around, frowning at the non-descript, grey walls, wondering if he’s come down into Cobb’s office building after all. However, it’s just like the room above as there seems to be no way out, save for a window that looks out into complete darkness. 

“Well, fuck.” He says, under his breath. He turns his face up towards the ceiling, to where he dropped down from, but there’s nothing to indicate that a grown man had just fallen through. He stands, nervous about the uncertain flooring, but it holds solid beneath him. 

He takes a step forward towards the window, to maybe try and see if he can find a way out, when there’s a loud cracking noise from above, like a piece of glass shattering into a thousand pieces. He’s just barely out of the way of Arthur, who comes hurtling down from the ceiling, clumsily, on his back, as if he’d been trying to cling to the walls as he fell. The traitorous flooring turns once again into a trampoline, and Eames loses his balance and falls backwards as it wobbles with Arthur’s arrival. They land in a great heap, bones knocking together painfully. 

“Eames?” Arthur asks, frantic, sounding exactly as one might expect when you’ve just popped in through the ceiling onto your ex-boyfriend. He’s twisting and turning in their pile like a frightened animal, fingers clawing at Eames’ shirt.

“Yes, it’s me,” Eames answers, as measured and calm as he can possibly manage. “You fell too?”

Arthur pauses before he replies, slightly calming down as the floor goes solid again. He casts a glance around the room, and Eames still gets the distinct impression that he’s trying to avoid eye contact. “No, I came after you.” 

“Oh,” Eames is a bit surprised by the answer, but he’s at capacity for surprise for the day, so he tries to put aside how warm it makes him feel that Arthur would come after him. He extracts himself from the clump they’ve formed but doesn’t bother standing up again. He does shimmy a few feet to the right, just in case they get any more visitors dropping in unannounced. “And the Cobbs…?”

“I told them to stay up above,” Arthur answers, grimly. “No point of us all falling into limbo.”

Eames nods, distracted by the pleasant flush of Arthur’s cheeks, the serious set to his brow. Arthur had dived in after him, even though he’d thought it likely they’d go into limbo. It’s hard to not read into it. “So you think that’s where we are, then? In limbo?”

Arthur frowns, but finally turns to look at Eames. “I’m… not sure.” He admits, chewing on the inside of his cheek, a nervous habit he’d had for as long as Eames had known him. “Everything we know about it is theoretical. Dom’s convinced it exists, but… no one’s ever been there.”

“And lived to tell about it, at least.” Eames adds, unhelpfully. 

“And lived to tell about it.” Arthur nods.

They lapse into silence then, the reality of the situation sinking in deep. Eames, who has always been able to get out of sticky situations with a charming smile and a measured application of force, feels distinctly unqualified for something like this. He’s not an academic, not by a long shot— he shouldn’t be faced with things like theoretical and inescapable dream states.

At least Arthur is there with him. Despite everything, he knows that he’d go mad twice as fast if he’d been left in an endless dream all by his lonesome. 

After a moment, Eames clears his throat. “Well, there’s got to be something we can do. At least explore all of our options before we succumb to hopelessness.”

“No one is succumbing to anything,” Arthur grumbles from his spot and on the floor, and as if to prove it, he pushes to his feet. He wipes imaginary dirt off of his now spotless trousers, glancing towards the window. “Even if we are in limbo, it’s still just dreamspace. We should be able to manipulate it.”

“You couldn’t upstairs,” Eames jerks his chin upwards, mirroring Arthur and climbing to his feet. “What makes you think we can down here?”

“Because we’re already changing it.” Arthur gestures to the window. It’s still pitch black out, but Eames sees what Arthur is pointing out: there’s a thin line of snow covering the outside of the windowsill. “That wasn’t there a minute ago.”

“Oh,” Eames breathes. “It’s snowing. Like in the other dream. Do you think it’s—”

“Unconscious? Probably. That’s what the formula was meant to do, wasn’t it? Clearly, she went wrong somewhere along the way, but looks like it’s doing its job.”

Arthur says the last part of his sentence with a great deal of bitterness, obviously displeased that he has to even mention the formula and its maker again. Eames frowns at him, rolling his eyes slightly, but moves towards the window, trying to see if he can catch a glimpse at anything else. “You know, jealousy is unbecoming on you, darling.”

“Jealous? What do I have to be jealous about?” Arthur snaps, jealously. 

Eames tilts his head to look at the other man, undecided on whether he even wants to get into it. _Why not_ , he decides. It’s not like he’s really got anything else to do besides bicker with Arthur. “Really, Arthur?”

“ _Really,_ Eames.” Arthur’s expression is twisted into a fierce scowl, eyes fixed firmly on the blank nothingness out the window. 

“So that comment up there, that wasn’t anything?”

“What comment?”

“Don’t be daft, pet, we both think better of you.”

Arthur huffs, finally turning towards Eames. “I suppose I should have congratulated you on crossing off yet another notch on your list of ‘coworkers with a pulse’.”

“I take what I said back, I much preferred when you were pretending to be daft.” 

Arthur snorts, eyes going a bit flat. “So you’re not even denying it?”

“What would I do that for? It’s clear to me that you’ve made up your mind about it, I doubt anything that I could say could possibly change it.” Eames leans heavily against the wall, shooting Arthur a simpering smile. “Not that it’s really any of your business anymore, now is it?”

“You are absolutely impossible,” Arthur sneers, jerking his hands up in the air. Eames is good at reading people, is especially good at reading Arthur, and he can spot when he’s reaching his limit for snarky conversation. There’s just that little spark of something else in his expression, something small and sad and hurt that he’s buried under endless layers of cool professionalism. And that’s just how he remembers Arthur, always— towards the end, he’d be withdrawn and aloof and Eames would push him far enough that he’d swear up and down that he didn’t care, that it was over, and he was over it. But the thing is, Eames has got bloody _eyes_ , and he’s got a heart, and he knows when Arthur is fucking lying. He knows when the man is hurting, and he knows when that hurt comes from a real place inside of him, not something fleeting and surmountable. 

It’s what kept Eames coming back, time after time after time. That little sliver of vulnerability, displayed only at the height of Arthur’s emotions, whether it be lust, or rage, or happiness. 

Eames deflates, the fight draining out of him, despite the fact that Arthur is still stood seething. He turns away from him, away from the window. He doesn’t quite expect the room to have changed again. “Oh, of course.”

They’re back in his mum’s sitting room, fully fleshed out, lived in. The walls gleam dark green, covered in the flickering lights of the crackling fireplace. Generations of Eames’s stare down from the walls at them, severe cheekbones and cruel eyes. Mistletoe hangs from the ceiling where a door should be, and the lack of door is the only marked difference between this dreamspace and the actual room. 

Eames sighs, walks towards the massive sofa in the centre of the room, plush and warm. He sinks down into the cushions, closing his eyes as the heat from the fireplace in front of the couch washes over him. 

“You’re really lingering on home, aren’t you.” Arthur states from behind him, not a question. His voice has gone a bit softer, a bit more calm. Laying down his weapons.

Eames chews on his lip, considering how truthful he’d like to be. “I miss it,” he admits, after a quiet moment passes. He opens his eyes, casting them fondly over the room, at all the nooks and crannies that he knows are faithful to the original. The ceiling above the fireplace is a bit singed from when Eames almost burnt the whole house down trying to melt chocolate over a granola bar when he was 9. His older sister’s football trophy from when she’d played in second form sits on a dusty shelf to his right. “‘Tis the season, and all that.”

Arthur hums, stepping forward, warming his hands in front of the fireplace. “I remember how you’d get every year. Decorations all over the place.”

“You never appreciated my tinsel, darling.” Eames teases, making sure that his tone conveys his geniality. 

Eames can only see the side of Arthur’s face from this angle, but he watches as a smile curls up over his cheek. “You remember when we first got together? You bought that ridiculous menorah before even asking if I was Jewish.”

Eames grins. “It wasn’t ridiculous. It was romantic. And I was right, wasn’t I?”

“Hadn’t celebrated Hanukkah since I was 13, and there I was, lighting the candles every night because you were scammed into buying the world’s most expensive menorah.” 

“It had those kitschy little angels on it!”

“They were _elves,_ Eames.”

“A symbol of unity, of our shared traditions!”

They laugh together, the warmth of the fire making things feel heavy, slow, fond. Arthur rubs his hands together, then moves to sit beside Eames on the sofa, leaving a polite amount of space between their thighs. Things hadn’t been this good-natured between them for ages. Likely not since their honeymoon phase from when they’d gotten together last. And even then, it’d all been tinged with that sort of unspoken desperation that surrounded couples aware that they were doomed. He remembers during the best part, they’d gone to this tiny resort in Fiji, extremely private, and Eames remembers having Arthur’s cock in his mouth on the beach and still thinking that he’d best enjoy this while it lasted. 

Arthur clears his throat slightly, a bit unsure. They must’ve been having the same line of thought. “It… wasn’t all bad, was it?”

Eames smiles at him, and it only makes him ache just a little. “You’re just realizing this now? You’re getting sentimental on me, Arthur.”

Arthur looks up at that, peering out of the corner of his eyes. “You—,” he clears his throat again. He looks like he’s trying to go for teasing, but he’s always been very bad at that. “What, no darling? No pet?”

“Do you want me to call you darling?”

Arthur’s eyes are dark. “No. I like when you say my name.”

Eames inhales, sharp. But he’s not one to resist being goaded into something. They’re sat very close to each other. “Arthur.”

Arthur drifts closer, as if pushed forward by the wind, but then he stops. He blinks once, twice, then turns back to the fireplace. Eames can’t help it— he snorts, then dissolves into quiet laughter. Arthur doesn’t quite join him, but Eames can see the self-deprecating smile placed firmly on his face. The tension that had been building abruptly drains back out of the room.

“Well, anyways.” Eames says, once he’s able to pull himself back together again. He checks the watch sitting on his wrist, a force of habit. “Have you any idea how long we’ve been down here?”

Arthur visibly deflates, resting his elbows on his knees as he leans forward. “No. And it’s not like we even have a clear understanding on what the passage of time down here should feel like. It could’ve only been a few seconds up top.”

“Or it could’ve been hours, and our comatose bodies are being examined in some medical facility somewhere. We might as well make ourselves comfortable.”

The man nods, absentmindedly, but heeds Eames’ advice, scooting backwards to sink deeper into the couch. He pulls one leg up off the ground, tucking it in beneath his bottom as he gets comfortable. Eames had never seen him sit like that in a professional setting, but he’d do it back in their flat. It was always oddly charming to see it— Arthur and his complete inability to sit normally in chairs when he didn’t absolutely have to. It leaves his one thigh hanging open, knee pointed in Eames’ direction, and he suddenly wants very badly to reach over and run his hands up the inside of his thigh. Arthur’s all wiry muscle under his clothes, tightly packed and capable. The weight of his capacity for violence always thrummed under his skin, always made Eames’ hand tingle as he touched him, as he considered that Arthur _could_ rip his head off, but instead he would bare him his throat. 

“You think she’d leave us up there, then? To be picked apart?” Arthur asks, interrupting Eames’ very important line of thought. He has to take a moment before replying, curious about Arthur’s tone, as if he’s trying to be nonchalant about it. 

“Who, Aoife?” He purses his lips, thinking it over. “I certainly hope not, but I’ve learnt to not place too much trust in a thing like that.”

Arthur makes a noise in his throat, polite, considerate. Eames can tell he has more to say, so he just waits, tapping a little tune onto the armrest. His patience is rewarded half a song later. “So it’s nothing serious, I gather.”

“Arthur,” Eames sighs, wearily. “If you’ve something you’d like to ask me, just ask.”

“I don’t!” He insists, quickly. His foot still on the ground starts bouncing. “I just thought you two were, you know.”

“Yes, I know what you think, Arthur.” He runs his hand over his forehead, trying to tamp down on his rising annoyance. He doesn’t want to fight anymore. “If I tell you we haven’t slept together, would that appease your curiosity?”

“I wasn’t curious,” Arthur grumbles, but he does indeed look appeased. The two of them turn in unison to look into the fireplace. 

“... We did kiss, though.”

Arthur’s head snaps back to look at him so fast Eames is afraid he’s caused damage. “I knew it!”

“It was just the once, Arthur!” Eames insists, but he’s sort of laughing again, watching as Arthur rolls his eyes dramatically at the ceiling. “And I’m sure you’d be pleased to hear that she said that she ‘knew better than to kiss someone else’s’ man’.”

“Well, that’s just ridiculous.” Arthur answers, sounding pleased. “You’re not, we’re not…”

Eames snorts. “Don’t you think I know that? Seems you’ve ruined me for others, in the dreamshare community, at least. They take one look at me and say, ‘no thanks, not getting involved in all that.’”

Arthur casts him a disbelieving look. “Yeah, I’m sure they go running for the hills. Maybe if you expanded your dating pool a bit, looked for someone not involved in a life of crime, you’d have better luck.”

“Oh, so I’ve got to date a civ just because I’ve got a theoretical ‘property of Arthur’ tattooed on my bum? Unfair.” Eames grins as Arthur snickers, unable to stop the fondness from coursing through his veins. “And hold on, what did you mean you _knew_ I’d kissed Aoife? It was just the one time, and it was hardly even a proper snog.”

Arthur shifts in his seat. “It was the day you went out to lunch, right?”

“Yes. _How_ do you know that?”

“Eames.” His eyes flicker between Eames and the fireplace. “I know what you look like when you’ve just been kissed.”

Eames’ heart thuds traitorously in his chest, a soft _ka-thunk_ that he’s found only happens to him in the presence of the man at his side. His smile had faded automatically at Arthur’s words, but he lets it build back up, a bit more self-deprecatingly. He falls back on being overtly British and formal, like his mum would like. “Arthur,” he purrs, and he can’t help that part of it, really, he can’t, “in the interest of maintaining professionalism and following the rules of good ex-lover etiquette, I feel obliged to inform you that I’m finding it harder and harder to not want to kiss you.”

Arthur turns fully towards him. His lips curl up, eyes sparkling. Little shit is pleased with himself. “I thank you for informing me, Mr. Eames. And I sit in wonder at your show of professionalism, as you’ve never displayed it before.”

Eames scoffs. “Cheeky, aren’t you? And honestly, are you saying that you’ve not the slightest inclination towards kissing me too?” He waggles his eyebrows, aware that he’s not really helping his case. The voice in his head that had been fully convinced at the start of this job that he’d not fall into this Arthurian trap again sits in judgemental silence.

Arthur smirks, tilting his head away slightly, exposing the sharp line of his jaw. He knows how much Eames loved his throat, loved pressing kisses into the places where skin was thinnest. Displaying it like this was akin to a Victorian noblewoman lifting up her skirts to reveal an uncovered ankle. Contradicting his body language, Arthur answers, “that is indeed what I’m saying.”

“Oh, darling.” Eames shifts over on the couch, still leaving just enough room so that they’re not touching. Eames can smell Arthur from here, the scent of the cologne he wears that follows him down even into dreams, and that natural aroma that he carries with him, of soap and skin and _home_. This is a bad idea, this is going to just lead to endless hurt later on, but like so many times before, he’s been fully ensnared. Eames always breaks first. “You can’t lie to me.”

“And why’s that?”

“Because I know what you need. I always know.” Eames makes his move, sliding a steady, confident hand up to rest at the top of Arthur’s thigh. Arthur breathes in, sharp, but maintains his composure, doing nothing except allowing his head to fall a bit further back against the sofa. Eames takes that as an invitation, leaning in, inhaling deeply from the crook of his neck, nose grazing softly against fire-warmed skin. 

“Egotistical, as always,” Arthur murmurs, and Eames can feel the vibration against his face. “What if I found someone else? Someone else who knows what I need?”

Eames grits his teeth, aware that Arthur’s trying to make him angry, and falling for it anyways. With the hand not rubbing circles on Arthur’s thigh, he reaches up to the man’s jaw, turning his face so that they’re looking at each other, eye-to-eye. Something ugly rears up in his anger, in his bitter jealousy. “Don’t you get it yet, Arthur?” He says, soft, dangerous, “it’s inevitable. No one will ever know you better than I do. Nor will anyone know me better than you.”

It takes a moment, but Arthur frowns at that, brows creasing as he withdraws and jaw sliding out from between Eames’ fingers. “That’s—” he pauses, searching for words. He stands up, taking a few steps away from the sofa, away from Eames. “That sounds fucking awful. You sound awful.”

Eames laughs, loud, bitter. He tries to not pay attention to the distress that flashes through Arthur’s face, that genuine hurt. “It does, doesn’t it, darling?” He sinks deeper into the couch, thighs spread leisurely, at odds with how sick he feels to his stomach, at the truth that rings in his words that even he hadn’t fully realized. “Because maybe you have found someone else, right? Or maybe you haven’t, but you’ve tried. I know I have. But it never feels the same, and I’m tired of lying to you about it, because it’s hopeless, alright? You’re it for me.”

“Eames…” Arthur chews on the inside of his cheek, the habit he’s had for as long as Eames has known him. Eames knows the size of each item of clothing that he’s wearing, knows the shop he’s bought it from, knows the tailor that altered it. Eames knows his height, his weight, his blood type, the town where he grew up, the colour of his mother’s eyes, the way his father prefers his steak cooked. More vitally, he knows the name of the man who Arthur first killed, knows the locations of multiple sets of bones that lie buried around the globe, victims of their circumstance, men and women who had gotten in the way of their success. Arthur would lie, cheat, steal, murder and maim, and Eames had stood there by his side throughout it all, holding his hand, or just holding position to watch his back. It sounded awful, but they were _awful people_ , and at the end of the day Eames couldn’t smile and charm his way into a relationship with someone who didn’t understand the consequences of the world that they lived in and know how to come out on top. He couldn’t do that, nor did he want to. 

Eames steels his jaw. “Arthur.” He takes a breath, lets the moment sit between them. “You know I’d never make you do anything. If you feel differently, I’ll let you go. I’ll let you go as many times as you’d like. Because Arthur?” He laughs, and it _aches_ , pressure pricking at his eyes, but nothing escapes. “I’m always going to come back for more. I’ll die still wanting you.”

Arthur stares at him, eyes wide, disbelieving. Expressive, like he never is. “What am I supposed to say to that?” He chokes out, and he runs a shaky hand through his hair, loosening the curls from their iron hold. 

“What are you supposed to say?” Eames resists the almost overpowering urge to roll his eyes, to jump to his feet, to shout, to rage, because that’s how he’s always reacted when Arthur got like that, and it’d never worked out for him in the past. Instead, he leans forward on the sofa, elbows on knees, as earnest as he can manage while still feeling that low throb of anger in his belly. “You could start with how what I’ve said makes you feel. How I make you feel. If you think I’m a fucking wanker who should just fuck right off and leave you be. Really, anything, Arthur. Say anything you’d like, as long as it’s truthful and how you _feel.”_

“Like it’s that easy?” Arthur laughs, almost hysterical. He looks liable to crack open and spill right out onto the floor. It makes Eames want to draw back, to apologize, to tell Arthur that they can keep living this way, this half-life spent circling each other, not acknowledging the rightness of their bond, until one of them inevitably gets shot and bleeds out on a job. But he doesn’t, he just sits there and waits, waits as Arthur visibly constructs the words inside of his head, as if he’s inventing language for the first time. “I— it, you.” He heaves in a breath, eyes darting nervously around the room. Finally, in a voice much quieter than before, “I don’t know how to be with you.”

Eames frowns. He doesn’t know what he had expected, but it wasn’t that. “You… what?”

The pointman holds his hand up, palm facing him. “Just, shut up for a minute, alright?” When Eames doesn’t say anything, he continues. “I… I think you’re right, okay? I can never… No matter how much I try, my mind always goes back to you. And I’ve tried, Eames, really, I have. I know I’m not you, with people falling all over themselves for you to smile at them, but people, they— they want me too.” He clears his throat, the tense line of his shoulders sagging. “But it’s not the same. You’re fucking right about that. I still only want you.”

“Arthur…” Eames starts, but he’s shot a murderous glare, and shuts his mouth again.

“And I know all that, right, I know no one is ever going to be able to compare, and all that stupid shit that people say when they’re in love, but it’s just. _You._ You’re there, and you’re all—” Arthur waves a hand in a circle, gesturing towards all of Eames, “like that, and you say shit like, you’ll die wanting me, and I! I don’t know what to do with that! You want so much from me, Eames. And I want to give you it, really, I do, but I don’t know how.”

“So you what?” Eames interrupts, taking advantage of the way Arthur had trailed off during that last sentence, voice getting weaker and weaker. “You leave?” He stands up now, unconscious, like he’s been tugged up and across the room towards the other man. His hands reach out before he can stop them, cradling Arthur’s face between them. Arthur’s hands automatically clench onto his wrists, seeming just as frantic and unstoppable as Eames’ movements. “That’s absurd, Arthur. Absurd.”

“We can’t make each other happy, Eames. Not in the long-term, it doesn’t work.” Arthur sighs, and he’s so fucking breathtaking this close, eyes wide and glistening, every emotion there and on display. “I can’t make you happy.”

“That’s— that’s not—,” Eames shakes his head, thumbs pressed tightly into the slight hollow under Arthur’s cheekbone. “You make me feel alive, and real, and understood. You’re the most frustrating, most beautiful man I’ve ever met, and you make me more miserable than I’ve ever been before, but you’re a fucking idiot and a prat if you think you don’t make me happier than I’ve ever been, as well.” Arthur tries to duck his face down, away, but Eames holds him firmly in place, can’t let Arthur turn away when Eames can read every thought, every feeling the man is feeling, written right there clearly in the curve of his lip, the angle of his brow. And it’s not exactly the point he’d meant to make, not really, not when concepts like _happiness_ and _truth_ and _love_ are so foreign to him— meaningless, really, in the life that he can picture for them, can now see as clearly as he can see the wrinkles at the corner of Arthur’s eyes. Eames doesn’t want someone who makes him happy (though Arthur really does, in between bouts of making him insane), Eames wants someone who can look at him and _understand_. He wants someone who can be his equal partner, someone who can look at the most awful, most vile parts of Eames, and understand what he sees there. He doesn’t have to tolerate it, oh no. He’d not love Arthur even half as much if the man would let himself be jerked around by Eames’ flightiness, by his whoring, by his complete inability to tell the truth at times. And he wanted to in return, love Arthur when he was being unbearable, love him when he was cold and withdrawn with a glock in one hand and a moleskin journal in the other. Wanted to let Arthur carelessly break his heart again and again and again until he was buried six feet deep in the dirt. 

And maybe that makes him shit, alright? Maybe it means their relationship doesn’t work and it’s awful and they’re doomed to a lifetime of misery. But it’s what he wants. He wants Arthur and the worst parts of him so badly he wants it to consume him. 

He doesn’t know how to say that, though. So instead, he just gives in to his urges and kisses him. Kisses him hard, and dirty, and desperate, and Arthur responds under his hands, soft noises escaping from the back of his throat, opening up to him. They still cling to each other, fingers pressed tightly into skin, as if the other will flutter off on the wind if they loosen their grip for even one moment. Arthur’s lips are so soft, but Eames has kissed them when they’ve been dry and cracked, kissed them wet and sloppy, and he’s loved them all. Their lips move against each other’s, a well-practiced routine, knowledgeable of all the little things that make the other go crazy. Arthur is the one to close in, to press his lithe body up against Eames, but it doesn’t feel sexual— just as if Arthur’d needed more points of contact between them. Eames’ hands migrate south, taking firm hold of the other man’s hips, of the small of his back.

Eames tears away with a gasp. “You don’t have to stay,” he speaks, unsure what he’s even saying, just words flowing from his mouth. “You can leave. And maybe sometimes I’ll leave you. As long as we always come back.” He mouths a kiss onto Arthur’s jaw, across his cheeks, his temples, anywhere he can reach. Reverent kisses, ones that plead louder than any words he could ever say. He doesn’t need a house, a ring, 2.4 children— he doesn’t even need the flat that they used to share, both of their false names written on the deed. He just needs the promise that there will always be a place for him to return to in Arthur’s arms. 

Arthur’s eyes are closed, mouth hanging open, pink spit-slick lips that look like a religious experience themselves. His arms wrap around Eames’ shoulders, one hand holding the back of his head in place, a careful thumb pressed just above the knob at the top of his spine. Slowly, belatedly, he nods, nods like he’d needed a moment to comprehend what Eames has said, slowly like he’d measured it in his mind, slow like he wanted to savour every syllable. “ _Yes._ ” He breathes and tilts his head to catch Eames’ lips with his own, pulling Eames in, melting slowly into each other.

Then, 

*

Eames wakes up with pins and needles in his limbs, wakes with a full body shudder as he jerks up into consciousness. His body is a mishmash of sensations— ghosts of the warmth of the fire against his side, of Arthur’s mouth breathing into his, combined with an aching sense of _wrongness_ , done in by a hangover from a chemical cocktail that has his teeth clenching and his palms sweating. 

Aoife hovers over him, brows furrowed with a worried look on her face. “Eames?” She asks, and her eyes dart back over the other bodies surrounding them. Eames looks too, looks at the mark, Dom, and Mal, who still slumbering, peaceful, and then at Arthur, who has his eyes open and is staring motionless up at the ceiling from his spot on the carpet.

“What?” Eames asks, in a voice not dry, not cracked, sounding exactly as he had the last time he’d spoken. “What’s happened?”

“Dunno, shouldn’t you be telling me that?” Aoife asks. She takes a halting step towards Arthur, noticing that he’s awake now as well, but seems to think better of approaching him. “You’ve still got 7 minutes on the timer.”

Arthur turns his head, expression blank. “We were only down for 3 minutes?”

Aoife nods. Eames massages the skin around the needle in his arm, wincing at the pull of it. “Should we go back down? The Cobbs—”

“I’ll go,” Arthur interrupts him. His face is inscrutable; back to that cool mask of professionalism. Eames wants desperately to rip his needle out and to go across to him, to straddle his long legs, to kiss him, to ask him if what happened down in the dream had been real, but refrains. Arthur’s back in work mode. Though it’ll kill Eames to do it, he’ll wait until they’ve a moment without a curious audience member. 

Aoife stands back as Arthur efficiently goes back under, and as Eames delicately removes his own line, sanitizing it with hands that still have a bit of a tremor from his unexpected reaction to the mix. He explains what had happened, barring the details of his conversation with Arthur, tells her about the first room and it’s paint-covered walls, of the second room they’d fallen into that seemed to work just fine, of how they’d never even encountered the mark. Aoife frowns along as she listens, pulling out a scratchpad from her bag and begins writing notes, asking about the press of gravity and about how the air had felt.

“That… shouldn’t have happened.” She murmurs, more to herself than to Eames. She takes out a syringe from her bag, draws blood from the mark. Eames just nods along, eyeing Arthur’s body lying prone on the floor, wondering if he should go down after him. The man hadn’t said what he’d planned on doing once he got down there, if he was just going to grab Mal and Dom and drag them back up into the real world, or if they’d end up trying to figure out a way to extract the secrets they’d been hired to steal. If that were the case, he should be down there, right? They’d hired a forger for a reason, and Eames was going to insist on being paid either way. 

He doesn’t spend too much time pondering over it, because as soon as the timer hits the 8-minute mark, all 4 sleeping bodies burst suddenly back to life, the mark included. Aoife moves fast, depressing the syringe to put him back to sleep before he’s really able to comprehend that he’s sat in his office with 5 strangers and a needle sticking out of his arm. 

Dom and Mal are slow to react to waking, blinking slowly at each other, the confusion written clear on their faces fading into something hesitantly triumphant. Arthur’s more put together, has made himself busy with his usual post-extraction duties of cleaning and clearing out. Eames approaches him, casually, hands dug in the pockets of his trousers. “Everything alright?”

Arthur glances up at him, but quickly goes back to what he’s doing. “Yeah.” He murmurs, “they found the mark in a different room. Door hidden behind one of the… paint walls.” Arthur laughs quietly under his breath. “Before we left, Dom just asked him for the information, and he gave it. We’ll have to go dark, and the client’s not going to be happy, but at least it’s something.”

“Arthur,” Eames tilts his head, keeping his face from splitting open into a grin. “The job almost completely fell apart, and you’re sounding suspiciously optimistic. Is that a good mood I’m detecting?”

Arthur laughs again. Dom and Mal look up from where they’re still recovering across the room, just as surprised by Arthur’s mood as he is. Eames couldn’t care less about their staring. “I guess I am.” He snaps the PASIV closed, looks up at Eames through his lashes. “I wonder why.”

*

They all leave without incident. Eames, who had his bags ready with him to go to the airport, tucks himself into a cab, ready to take a handful of flights before he makes his way back to England. He and Arthur split apart at the pavement with barely a second glance, Arthur on his way to locations unknown. Eames isn’t too worried about it, and he’s later rewarded when, on the final flight on his way into Heathrow, he’s joined in first class by someone very familiar. 

And in about a week or two, Eames will get a call from Aoife, who will explain in her lovely Irish accent the exact chemical makeup of a drug that had been in the mark’s system, unaware to all of them that had reacted spectacularly to her custom mix. With a bit of further digging, it’s discovered that one of the mark’s prescription drugs had been changed the day before their quasi-failed extraction, swapped out for another brand. The doctor hadn’t even updated the records until after the holiday. It wasn’t her fault, nor was it Arthur’s for missing it in his research. Just pure medical incompetence and bad luck. 

And despite Eames’ insistence, he’s never bloody paid. 

*

_December 25, 20xx_

“This is terrible.”

Eames squawks, a noise terrible in itself, cheeks pinking up in offended embarrassment. “You— you’re the terrible one here.”

“Really? I’m doing terribly?” Arthur shimmies his hips, slick and warm and decidedly _not_ terrible underneath him. And look, alright, Eames might have been getting a bit distracted, but really, it’s felt like it’s been _so_ long since he’s had Arthur like this (about 7 hours or so, if the clock on the bedside table was correct), so you can’t really blame him for getting lost in the rhythm of their bodies sliding against each other. Arthur had just gotten out of the shower, too, skin extra hot against him, hair clean and smelling strangely of lavender. Arthur didn’t use to use lavender shampoo, so he was just acclimating to the new smell of him, and the mindless grinding against him was just the inevitable side effect. 

“No, you’re right darling, you feel divine,” Eames croons, half because it’s true and it makes him completely unable to stay mad at him, and half because the only thing that gets Arthur pliant and accommodating under him faster is by appealing to his ego. Eames shifts under the covers, nudging one of Arthur’s legs further apart with his knee, rolling his hips against him. Arthur’s eyelids flutter, and Eames knows it’s worked when the man lets out a happy little sigh, hands navigating down to clasp at Eames’ hips.

“You need to hurry up,” Arthur thrusts upwards, lazy movements contradicting his words. “We needed to be on the road 20 minutes ago.”

“No, no, no, no, no…” Eames nibbles at Arthur’s neck, ignoring the slight cramp working its way up his thigh. “That’s only if we wanted to be early, which I assuredly don’t. It’s just my mum, and it’s not like she’s going bloody anywhere.”

Arthur chuckles, low and throaty. “I love it when you talk about your mom when we’re about to fuck.”

“Oh, are we?” 

“Yes,” Arthur’s hands move further back, one hand on each of his arse cheeks, and squeezes tight. “We are. Now hurry up, or roll over, and I’ll just fuck you.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time, duck.” But Eames heeds Arthur’s words, stops the near constant grinding of his cock against Arthur’s. He reaches over to the bedside table, to where they’d hastily discarded lube and condoms when they’d gotten into the hotel the night previous. Arthur had already had it in his luggage, had had it this entire time, and it makes Eames feel alternatively insane with jealousy that Arthur might have been using it with someone else, and giddy with relief at the thought that Arthur might have brought it _because_ he’d be working with Eames. He hadn’t asked. Didn’t want to ruin the mystery.

He pops open the cap on the lube, can’t resist sliding a slick hand down and wrapping his fingers around both of their cocks, shuddering against Arthur’s shoulder. Arthur exhales, and he releases Eames’ arse to swat the hand away. Eames knows full well how to make both of them come just like that, knows it wouldn’t even take very long, but Arthur’s got that look in his eyes that says he doesn’t want it to end there. So Eames grits his teeth, shuffling further down the bed on the knees, resisting as much as he can the urge to continue grinding against the bed. He disappears beneath the blankets, which makes things a bit stuffy, but it’s December and they’re in England, and the radiator in the little hotel they’re staying at is barely functional. The alternative is freezing their tits off, which is not something Eames is willing to endure. 

He shoulders Arthur’s thighs up, out of his way, bending the man in half at his leisure, grateful for the millionth time about the yoga Arthur does to remain flexible. He presses a bite or two onto the man’s inner thigh, right below that delicious crease, not hard enough that he’ll be miserable during the festivities at Eames’ mum’s that afternoon, knows that he’ll be cross with him if he had. Arthur’s fingers slide down into his hair, tugging lightly, in the way he knows will always send a shudder down Eames’ spine. And okay, it’s not like Eames doesn’t know that Arthur likes to take a hold of his hair so that he can control where Eames is (or isn’t) putting his mouth, but he loves Arthur for and despite his bossiness, so he’ll take it. Arthur gently directs his face to rest against one of thighs, keeping him out of nibbling distance, which is so incredibly unlike any other person he’s ever been with, the neurotic sod. The last man Eames had slept with had been grabby like that, but he’d been rather insistent on keeping Eames’ mouth perpetually on his cock. But Arthur’s all iron control, all willpower, and he’s already harder than he’d like to be before Eames gets inside of him. 

Eames lets himself be positioned, lets his stubble rasp against the inside of his thighs. He carefully pours more lube over his fingers, pressing his index and middle tightly together to form a point, and breaches Arthur’s hole in one smooth movement. To distract from how he’d started with two fingers, he briefly rebels against the hands in his hair, surging forward to lick a wet stripe up Arthur’s cock that starts down at his balls. Above him, Arthur gasps, his legs twitching in surprise on either side of Eames’ shoulders, and he shoves Eames’ face aside with more force than before.

“Behave,” Arthur hisses, fingers tightening, even as they continue running through his hair, massaging at the bones of his skull, the soft flesh of his ears. His hips begin to wiggle, testing out how he stretches around Eames’ fingers, getting more vigorous as he works through any potential hurt. Eames slowly withdraws them, eyes glued to the movement in front of him, even though he can barely see under the cover of the blankets. 

Eames has always found that there was something extremely pleasurable about fingering someone. Be it man or woman or anyone in between, there was just something about having someone on the ends of his fingers that Eames found unbearably erotic. He could lay there and do this for hours, always made better when he could eat them out, or swallow them down. He loved being nestled between someone’s thighs, driving them to the ends of pleasure, fingers sliding smoothly in and out, curling and exploring. He was good at it, too, good at paying attention, good at finding the spots that could make even the most taciturn lover melt into putty, encouraging the sweetest sounds unbidden from the backs of their throats. And he’d had plenty of practice, especially on Arthur himself, who despite his current insistence on getting Eames from point A to point B as quickly as possible, could be quite selfish at heart, and generally had no issue just lying back and letting Eames worship him for as long as either of them could stand it. 

He gets to work, biting at his lip to control himself from pushing against Arthur’s hands so that he could press his lips against Arthur, against the crease of his thighs, or the soft skin of his balls, or where his fingers disappear inside of him. It’s torturous, it really is, to be this close and to not be allowed, but with a twitch of his own dick, he reminds himself of where he’s hoping to be in about 5 minutes, if he recalls correctly from previous encounters. Arthur’s greedy for it, his right leg gradually wrapping itself around Eames’ shoulder, heel pressing into his back, drawing him in closer while simultaneously keeping his face away. Eames twists his wrist, rooting around, searching without any great urgency. Arthur was so sensitive like this, knew he’d be told off if he actually did press against that lovely little bundle of nerves.

“Eames,” Arthur moans, _begs_ , his hands stroking through his hair, gentle now, trying to play nice to get Eames to do what he wants. “C’mon, baby. I need more.”

Eames hums thoughtfully, slowing down the movement of his wrist, pistoning in and out. He scissors his fingers apart, then pushes back in with a third finger, revelling in the way it makes Arthur groan above him. He wipes his unoccupied hand across his forehead, wiping away the sweat that has accumulated while under the muggy blanket. 

“Oh,” Arthur sighs, sweet, like he never is. “Oh, that’s good. That’s good, you’re so—”

Eames resumes his pace, starting to feel a bit frantic now himself, desperate to get Arthur stretched out enough to take him, desperate to get inside of him. Three of his fingers are quite thick, and he’s fucked Arthur with less prep, but that was always when they’d been doing it quick and dirty. He’s sure they’ll be drawn back to that eventually, but for now, all he wants to do is make this good for Arthur, to make up for all of the time they’ve been apart this time. They’d had sex the night before, falling back into the hotel, but they’d been so rushed that both of them had come long before getting anywhere close to penetrative fucking. 

Eames blinks, hadn’t even realized that Arthur was tugging on his hair again, so lost in the trance of watching his fingers slide in and out of his lover. “Okay, I’m ready, c’mon.” Arthur is panting, and Eames pulls his fingers out, pushing up on the bed so he can catch a glimpse at the man’s face, flushed and beautiful. Eames kisses him, draping his body over Arthur’s, unable to stop himself from grinding down against him again as he roots blindly for the condom. He manages to get it on and slick himself up— muscle memory, because he sure as hell isn’t actively aware of doing it. 

Arthur kisses at wherever he can reach— _so fucking sweet_ , Eames can’t help himself from thinking— as Eames lines himself up, scooping Arthur’s left leg over his elbow. Arthur, eyes dark and looking half out of it, pulls the blanket up over his shoulders, keeping him from the cold, and Eames loves him so fucking much he could die right there. 

“Eames,” Arthur is moaning as he presses in, the head of his cock slipping into him, a practiced routine. “God, it’s so good.” His eyes are squeezed shut now, hands fluttering uselessly, unsure of where to do. “You’re so good.”

A moan of his own works its way out of his throat at that, always goes mad for Arthur’s praise. He continues sinking in, going slow, eyes rolling to the back of his head as he savours the tight clasp of Arthur around him. Once he’s reached the base, he stops, waits, lets Arthur, who is shuddering through it, adjust to the sensation. Eames could come right now as he is, sheathed fully inside of the man that he loves, the press of their skin and their bones against each other feeling hot and vital.

“Arthur,” Eames chokes, “darling, love.” He can’t say anything except his name, can’t conjure anything except for the terms of affection. 

Under him, Arthur begins to nod. “Okay,” he murmurs, and there’s a slight tremble to his voice, but he still sounds more put together than Eames feels. “Okay, move. Fuck me.”

Eames doesn’t immediately obey, gritting his teeth, sure that he’s about to spill at just those words. Arthur manages to get his hands back up, wraps them around the back of Eames’ head again, ready to guide him once more.

“C’mon, Eames. I want it.”

“Darling,” Eames whines, actually whines it, ducking his face down to hide in the man’s neck. “Give me just a moment, here, alright?”

Arthur, the bastard, laughs. He can feel it reverberating through their rib cages. “Oh, not a problem. Just pass me my laptop, I’ll go through my emails while I wait.”

“You’re such a fucking…” Eames trails off, unable to finish the sentence. He can’t think badly of Arthur, not when they’re like this. “Alright. Let’s do this, shall we?” He braces himself up on his hands, drawing slowly out of the man.

“I wait with bated breath.” Arthur smirks, and it only falters a little bit when Eames pushes firmly back in. His back arches, and Eames very considerately grabs a pillow from above them and shoves it under Arthur’s hips. He then proceeds to get to it, as it were, focused entirely on making this last, on staying hard for as long as he possibly can. Arthur is the most self-determined person he’s ever met, and the man knows what he wants, especially when it’s a good hard fucking. 

He drives into the body under him, over and over and over, the delicious slide of his cock not getting any less pleasurable as it goes on. Arthur gasps and hisses under him, ankles crossed neatly at the small of his back, exerting fair pressure as he pulls him in, guiding the speed of his thrusts. “Missed this,” he says, right into Eames’ ear, “missed you inside me.”

Eames groans, hips stuttering, but keeps it together, trying to ignore Arthur’s short bark of laughter, so inordinately smug about how Eames is falling apart on top of him. And he is, he is falling apart, embarrassingly quickly, his arms shaking from the bloom of pleasure that radiates out from his cock and into every crevice of his entire being. 

Arthur’s hands squeeze the back of his head. “Maybe we should do this.” With a sudden burst of strength, Arthur turns them, maneuvering Eames so that he’s the one on his back, Arthur sitting perched upon his cock, like a throne. It leaves the man exposed to the cold air, nipples perked and lovely, but his cheeks are flushed enough to show the heat that is coursing through his veins. Eames is powerless to do anything except stare up at him with wonder. “There,” Arthur leans his face in closer, accompanying the movement with a slow grind of his hips that has Eames’ cock dragging up against him. Comfortingly, he does sound a bit more out of breath when he continues, “isn’t that better?”

“Yeah,” Eames nods, not because it is or it isn’t, but because it’s all good, all feels equal degrees of toe-curlingly fantastic. He raises his hands to take hold of Arthur’s hips, liking how they look there against him. “You look so pretty up there, sweetheart.”

Arthur rolls his eyes, but his cheeks glow, thighs tensing as he starts to fuck himself up and down. And it might be unnecessary to specify, because the man is good at everything, but Arthur’s _so good_ at this, single-minded and selfish and so, so tight. Eames can only lay back, enjoy the view of Arthur’s strong torso, of his lovely cock, and hold on for all he’s worth. Arthur generally fucks like he’s no regard for life or limb, fucks like there’s no chance of damage or breaking, except maybe to the furniture, and now that he’s fully in control here, it proves to be no exception. The pace he starts with is brutal, bouncing up and down with harsh but measured strokes, the bed creaking underneath them. He braces himself on Eames’ chest, holding his full weight there, knows that Eames can take it, closes his eyes, and just _moves_ , chest heaving and hips grinding each time he drives himself back down. 

“God, fuck, Arthur,” Eames chokes, vision blurring, entire being funneled down to Arthur riding him. “You—,”

“Quiet, Mr. Eames.” Arthur’s intonation is formal, but he’s breathless. When Eames doesn’t speak, he smiles again, eyes still closed. “Good boy.”

Arthur rides him, relentless, until there’s sweat glistening over his chest, his hair a wild mess. Eames keens, grunts, moans, even beats his fist on the bed for a moment as he tries to stave off his inevitable orgasm. When it feels like he’s about to go insane, when he can’t possibly hold himself together any longer, Arthur pushes back, exposing the long, sinuous line of his body, bracing himself instead off the tops of Eames’ thighs. “Touch me,” he orders, and Eames obeys, wrapping his hand around Arthur’s red-tipped cock, jerking him off with the rhythm of his thrusts. Eames’ hips twitch and bounce, and Arthur bites his lips, eyes still closed, eyelashes splaying across his cheeks. Eames twists his wrist with a flourish, and then Arthur’s gaping, mouth going wide, his body folding itself back forward as he comes. He looks almost overcome by convulsions, thighs twitching around Eames’ hips, and as his rhythm falters Eames thrusts up once, twice, then follows Arthur over the edge. 

It takes a few minutes to come back to earth, for his vision to clear, for the ringing in his ears to stop. He feels Arthur slump off of him to lay on his side, Eames’ cock sliding out of him with a shiver. 

“Wow,” Eames croaks after a moment, still trying to catch his breath. His body feels like jelly, like he’s melted into the bed, but he manages to weakly clap his hands together. “Bravo, Arthur. That was spectacular.”

Arthur snorts. He no longer sounds slightly smug, just thoroughly content. “Thank you, Mr. Eames. I aim to please.”

“You’ve succeeded.” Eames removes his condom, tying it off and tossing it in the vague direction of the bin. He turns on his side, only partially aware of the come that decorates his own sweaty torso. Arthur’s got it too, had managed to come across the both of them. He hardly cares, tugging Arthur in closer to him, nuzzling against the side of his face. Arthur wiggles in his arms but allows himself to be dragged, sighing happily as Eames presses kisses across his face. 

“Love you,” Arthur murmurs, hooking his leg over Eames’ hip, and they both shudder at the sensation of their over-sensitized cocks sliding against each other’s skin. It’s not a sexual move, not meant to arouse, simply to try and get closer. His voice starts to break, suddenly overwhelmed by the intensity of the situation, of his own words, and that’s so like him that it makes Eames ache, “I love you, I—,”

“Shh,” Eames soothes, because he loves to hear the words, but he loves Arthur so much more, and he hates to hear him with that tinge of desperation. Besides, he knows it, anyways. “I know, I know. I love you too.”

Arthur’s eyes are open, bleary, thankful, adoring. His lips curl up in a soft smile, and he runs a hand down the side of Eames’ face. Words will never come easy for him, but that’s okay. Eames can work with that. They kiss, and he’s not the slightest clue which one of them leaned in first, but it’s too wet and they’re both so sweaty and covered in come but it’s _perfect_.

Arthur’s the one to pull away first, always the first to pull himself together. Eames might have been resentful about that, once upon a time, greedy for more time spent pressed against each other. Now, he can see the reluctance in his posture, the desire still gleaming in his eyes. 

“C’mon,” he pats Eames’ cheek, then pushes himself up, wincing slightly at the effort. “You might not want to be early, but I do. Your mother promised to show me how she makes that pudding this year, and we both need a shower now.”

“When did she promise that?” Eames grumbles, but follows his instructions, sitting up with a groan. His joints pop and crack in a few places as he stretches his arms up above his head.

“In her last email.”

“Her last— what?” Eames splutters. Arthur gets to his feet, his face gone inoffensively bland. “Do you email my mum?”

“No.” Arthur crosses the hotel room, shivering slightly, as they’re in England and the radiator barely works, and he turns the corner to take his second shower of the morning. It makes Eames think about the future and the past, think of the hot cocoa they’ll be drinking in a few hours, and makes him think about the quietly pleased eyes of his mother, who Eames has always suspected of liking Arthur more than him. As if to confirm, Arthur continues, “she emails me.”

*

_End_

**Author's Note:**

> i only started reading arthur/eames this past year, so sorry if this is a concept that has already been written half to death. in my mind, arthur and eames never settle down together, never get married-- they break up 1000 more times and they fuck other people but they'll always come back to each other in the end. am aware that that is not a dynamic you'd want for like, your little sister, but they are fake people and they can be as dysfunctional as i want!
> 
> $5 to any of my PB pals who could spot the exact moment when tommy/alfie started bleeding heavily into this story LMAO (also jk to $5 i have no money and canadian dollars are worthless anyways)
> 
> (lastly, the urge to reference the scene in inception where eames is talking to cobb and says something about "arthur's the best at what he does" or whatever, right after they finished fucking was overwhelming but didn't make sense in this timeline. just know: arthur is the BEST at what he does, send tweet)


End file.
